


compromised

by owlinaminor



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Drabble, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn’t very –”  Koushi starts rubbing circles into Daichi’s lower back, right above the waistband of his shorts, effectively causing Daichi to interrupt himself with a gasp. “– captain-ly.”</p><p>Koushi grins.  “That’s the idea.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ticklish

**Author's Note:**

> the "1 of ?" label is there because I have many ideas for ways suga could cause karasuno's great captain to be compromised (emotionally, mentally, and physically), and I fully plan on writing at least a couple of them. (the world needs more daisuga fluff, right? RIGHT.)

There are many things the majority of the Karasuno volleyball team doesn’t know about its captain.

Koushi considers that fact as they finish the after-practice meeting.  Daichi’s going on about how if they keep up their training and stay focused on their goals, they can definitely take the spring tournament, and the rest of the team listens intently.  Even Kageyama and Hinata stop bickering when Daichi speaks like this, solid and steady, his words building a ramp Karasuno can use to jump to the stars.

Of course, nobody else knows that Daichi writes these speeches out beforehand, scribbling them in the margins of his notebooks during class and practicing them with Koushi during lunch hour.  Nobody else knows how he worries about their team – he texts Koushi in the middle of the night with, _I hope Tanaka is eating right_ and _Kageyama better have done his math homework today_.  Nobody else knows how he plans for matches, meets with Kiyoko once a week after practice and fills notebooks with new ideas for drills, stretches, team bonding exercises – anything to help them get better.

Koushi is tempted, sometimes, to tell everyone.  He wants to interrupt the meeting, stand up there and shout, “Your captain cares about you so much!  He does everything he can think of to make us stronger!  Please thank him!”  But he knows – he knows Daichi wouldn’t want that.  Daichi prefers to work behind the scenes, shining the spotlight instead of standing in it.  (It’s just one of the things Koushi loves about him.)

And anyway – Koushi’s gaze comes to rest on the bottom of Daichi’s T-shirt, riding up just enough that a sliver of skin is visible – some things, Koushi doesn’t want the rest of the team to learn.  The knowledge that Daichi is very ticklish, for one.

The meeting ends unceremoniously, with a shout of, “Karasuno!  Fight!” and a reminder from Kiyoko to bring in money for the new team shirts they’re ordering.  The team heads for the locker room, and at first, Koushi turns to join them – but then, he realizes that Daichi is going in a different direction.  Towards the storage closet.

Koushi gives himself a few seconds to fully appreciate the sight of Daichi’s butt in volleyball shorts (truly a gift to this world) before he moves.

The gym is empty.  Daichi’s shirt is riding up his back.  Daichi is ticklish.

As far as Koushi’s concerned, there’s only one logical course of action here.

Koushi isn’t fast like Hinata or strong like Asahi, but he can move pretty damn quickly when he wants to.  And perhaps more importantly, he can move _quietly._   He approaches Daichi in ten steps, his feet barely touching the ground.  He hones in on his target: the few centimeters of exposed skin between Daichi’s shirt and shorts.

And he _pounces._

From the moment Koushi’s lips meet Daichi’s skin, the captain starts to giggle.  Koushi opens his mouth, traces along Daichi’s lower back with his tongue – delicately, like taking the first lick of an ice cream cone – and Daichi starts to shout, half-formed “Oh my god”s and “Fuck”s and “Suga, _why_ ”s.

Koushi has done this a thousand times.  He considers himself something of an expert in the field of sneak attacks, getting Daichi when they’re sprawled on the couch together or while he dozes off on the bus ride home from a game.  But still, every time, he’s amazed by the sound of Daichi completely losing his composure, laughing and laughing like a kid carried up in the air by a helium balloon.

Koushi lets up reluctantly – he needs to breathe, after all – and stands back up all the way.  He spins Daichi around by the shoulders so that they’re facing each other, and has to grin at the sight of Daichi’s face, red and iridescent.

“ _Koushi,_ ” Daichi gasps (and Koushi’s not going to lie, the sound of his name like that is enough to start a pool of warmth simmering in the pit of his stomach), “you – you shouldn’t have – what if someone _saw_?”

Koushi shrugs, and lowers his hands from Daichi’s shoulders to his hips.  “Nobody saw, though.”

“This isn’t very –”  Koushi starts rubbing circles into Daichi’s lower back, right above the waistband of his shorts, effectively causing Daichi to interrupt himself with a gasp. “– captain-ly.”

Koushi grins.  “That’s the idea.”

He shifts his hands slowly, pulling Daichi closer and closer until gravity or magnetism or something kicks in and there’s nothing they can do but kiss.  Koushi sighs happily at the contact, opening his mouth willingly – an invitation for Daichi to slide his tongue in.

One kiss turns into two, and two into many, the storage room growing hotter and hotter around them like an oven turned on maximum heat.  And nobody else on the team knows how Daichi bites down on Koushi’s botton lip, or how he twines his fingers into Koushi’s hair, or how he gasps when they part to breathe – but that’s okay.  That’s more than okay – that’s _great._

Because Koushi wants to keep this all to himself.


	2. smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me in literally any situation: what's better than this? sugawara koushi smiling.

Daichi always notices Suga.

So many people pass him over – they glance over him as though he’s just another face in a crowd, just another body in a Karasuno uniform, just another pair of hands tossing a volleyball.  He’s no genius or ace, with no outward talents impressive enough for opponents to target or spectators to marvel at.  But that’s okay, because Daichi looks at Suga and sees more than everyone else combined.

Daichi notices Suga’s kindness, how he gives everyone he meets a chance to prove their worth.  He notices Suga’s enthusiasm, how he cheers louder than anyone else from the bench at games, his voice never faltering despite how hoarse it might be the next day.  He notices Suga’s determination, how he insists on trying anything one more time.  He notices the way Suga’s nose scrunches up when he’s concentrating, the way he stifles his yawns when he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s tired, the way he holds his hand up for a high-five when one of their teammates aces a drill during practice.  And Daichi notices more than just the superficial things, signs of Suga’s excitement or nervousness – the slim curves of his body beneath his volleyball uniform, and the glint in his eyes when he finally gets to play in a game, and the bounce in his step on the walk home after a good practice.

Daichi could spend hours just watching Suga, honestly.  The boy is like a complex painting, or an artistic movie – there’s beauty in every line, every movement.  Daichi thinks, sometimes, that Suga must be a some kind of otherworldly spirit, sent to earth either to bless him or to torment him – he can never decide which.

Right now, he’s supposed to be giving his all in a practice match, one half of Karasuno’s full team against the other half, but he finds himself watching Suga instead.  The setter dances on the other side of the net, leaping from one place to another and tossing the ball with a determined grin on his face.  Daichi is caught, as easily as a fish in a trap, by the graceful extension of Suga’s arms, the elegant spread of his fingers, the jersey riding up ever so slightly on his hips –

And the ball slams down on Daichi’s side of the court, centimeters away from his feet.

“ _Yesssss_!” Hinata shouts, pumping his fists and bouncing up and down as though Karasuno just won a championship game.

“What the – what the _hell_?” Kageyama stutters, from Daichi’s side.  “Since when can you –”

Daichi has, apparently, missed something – but before he can try to figure out what it was, his mind goes completely blank, because –

Because Sugawara Koushi is smiling.

No, smiling isn’t a strong enough word for it.  Suga is beaming, he’s shining, he’s _radiating_ , and Karasuno might as well stop paying the lighting bill for this gym because it’s covered for the next few years at least.  If someone asked Daichi right this second, he wouldn’t be able to tell them what the score is, or who’s playing on his team, or how points work in volleyball.  He might not even be able to tell them his own name.

“Um, captain,” says a voice to his left.  “Captain?”

It’s Kageyama, trying to get his attention.  It occurs to Daichi that Kageyama has been trying to get his attention for a few seconds, already.

“Yeah?” he asks.  He finally manages to look away from Suga’s smile – he focuses on the volleyball in Kageyama’s hands instead – and does an okay job of pretending that, moments ago, his mind wasn't incapable of forming coherent thoughts.

Kageyama thrusts the ball into Daichi’s hands.  “It’s your serve.”

From across the court, Suga waves.  He turns that million-watt smile on Daichi, along with a gaze that somehow declares both, _you’re the most important person in the world to me_ and, _my team is going_ _to beat yours into the ground._

Daichi thinks he might melt.


	3. (not) studying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the point of these drabbles was going to be daichi getting compromised by suga, but this one didn't exactly turn out that way. instead, both of them are compromised. by each other. dear readers, you probably should've anticipated this development.

They’re supposed to be studying.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, and finals start the next Wednesday.  These finals are Koushi’s and Daichi’s last chances, as third-years, to get good marks in preparation for college applications.  They should be reading over their notes, solving problem sets, making sets of flashcards.

They definitely should _not_ be using Snapchat.  But _should not_ s have never been particularly effective at stopping Koushi and Daichi before, and they aren’t likely to start now.

Koushi checks his phone for what could be the tenth time in as many minutes.  He has a new message from Daichi: a picture of an abstract doodle in his chemistry notebook, the shape eerily similar to Asahi’s expression when he’s nervous.  “Heart of glass,” the caption reads.

Koushi laughs, then flips around in his English textbook until he finds an appropriate illustration to use as a response.  (Their books are full of characters, caricatures of American teenagers that do strange things like walk around the mall for fun and drive over a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour on highways – the pictures of their adventures that accompany dialogue snippets are perfect for snapchat reactions.)  Koushi has just found a great image – a girl giving an overenthusiastic thumbs-up – and is just focusing Snapchat’s camera when he gets another message.

This one is a picture of Daichi’s room, blurry and off-balance enough to be only barely recognizable.  The caption reads: “MOM FOUM D OOT  I WASNT STUDYNNG   SHT.”  Daichi’s usually pretty good about using correct spelling and grammar, so this must be bad.

Koushi snaps a quick picture of a character on the next page of his book, frowning angrily.  (He looks a lot like Kageyama, now that Koushi thinks about it.  “oh no!” he captions the photo, then sends it off.

Koushi puts his phone down on the desk next to him.  He looks at the stack of blank index cards, just waiting to be adorned with English verbs, then at the list of a hundred and twenty verbs he needs to know for his final, then sighs in defeat.  He has to write at least a _few_ of these.  At least _ten._

He’s halfway through the second card when his phone buzzes: another Snapchat from Daichi.  Koushi grins to himself – if only their team knew how irresponsible their captain can be when he puts his mind to it.  (Not that Koushi would ever tell them.  Daichi would never forgive him.)

This message is a picture of Daichi’s calculus notes, focused in on a list of equation-derivative pairs.  “Really studying now,” the caption reads.

To be honest, Koushi doubts that – but he likes to think of himself as a supportive boyfriend, so he’s going to do his best to believe in Daichi’s ability to concentrate.

He swipes back to the camera screen, turns it on selife mode, and holds his phone out at arms’ length.  Koushi grins widely at the camera, thinking about his boyfriend attempting calculus, scowling at the variables on the page as though they’ve done something to personally offend him.  (Koushi’s seen the expression up close, and it’s adorable.)  He examines the selfie he took, decides the lighting could be better, and tries again from a different angle – this time throwing in a peace sign as an added bonus.  _Perfect._

“good luck!! <3” Koushi captions the message.  He sends it off, then decidedly puts his phone down – he should probably get to work, too.

The phone stays down, at least for the first few index cards he writes out.  A third of the way down the page, he has to look up a definition for one of the words, and then he has to check Facebook, and then he notices that he has a Snapchat notification.

Daichi screenshotted his selife.  The thought is good – it gives Koushi a happy, tingling feeling in his stomach.  Less good is the next thing he realizes: that that picture was sent fifteen minutes ago, and Daichi has yet to reply.

Now, that’s just rude – Koushi put hard work into that selfie (or, well, two takes, which is more effort than he usually gives Snapchat), and so he deserves something nice in return.  Daichi clearly appreciated it.  A reply isn’t just expected – it’s _justified._

Koushi sends a chat message: “like what you see, huh? ;)”  And he waits.  Five minutes pass, with no reply – not even a “seen” notification.

“u ignoring me, daichi?  rude,” Koushi tries next.  Another five minutes, and still no reply.

Now, Koushi’s worried.  Even if Daichi’s concentrating hard on his studying, he still needs to use his phone as a calculator – his actual calculator ran out of batteries last week, and he hasn’t replaced them yet – so he should at least see Koushi’s message.

Koushi’s mind immediately starts running off-road, flipping through increasingly ridiculous scenarios like cards through the fingers of a casino dealer.  He’s on _what if Daichi decided to go outside for a break and got kidnapped by a Yakuza gang_ when the doorbell rings.

He doesn’t think much of the sound at first – his mom’s in the kitchen, she can get the door – but then, he starts to hear voices in the hallway leading to his room.

“Go right in, it’s fine,” his mother says.

And then the door opens, and there – as though summoned by Koushi’s thoughts – is Sawamura Daichi himself.

Koushi feels his mouth drop open, halfway to the floor.  Daichi closes the door behind him, the same expression on his face as when he concentrates on hitting a good receive during a game.  He takes several steps forward, leans in, grabs Koushi’s face in his hands – and kisses him, determined and unsteady and desperate in a way that Daichi rarely is.

And Koushi reciprocates with all his strength – he always reciprocates with Daichi, but right here, right now, in his room with the door closed and nobody to bother them is as close to heaven as he’s ever going to get.  Daichi’s hands come to rest on Koushi’s hips, calloused fingers digging into his skin, and Koushi’s arms snake around Daichi’s neck almost of their own accord.

It’s only ten minutes (and several kisses) later that Koushi finally remembers to ask, “So, why, exactly?  Not that I’m complaining,” he adds quickly, reaching up to tweak Daichi’s nose between his thumb and index finger.

Daichi shrugs and grins, slow and lazy and indulgent.  Koushi feels his body temperature raise ten degrees.

“I saw your picture, and there was no way I could concentrate after that,” he says, as though the fact is as indisputable as _the derivative of e to the x is e to the x._   As though the fact doesn’t make Koushi want to send him a thousand selfies and hold him close and never let go and propose marriage.  “So, I came over.”

“Weren’t you supposed to be studying?” Koushi replies.  (There’s much less integrity in his voice than there should be.)

Daichi moves in even closer, his hands sliding down, down, down until they’re cupping Koushi’s ass _._ “Yeah.”

Well.  They can study tomorrow.  And Koushi’s bed is _right there_ – it would be such a shame not to use it.

(An hour later, Koushi picks up one of his flashcards off the floor and reads Daichi the English word on one side, asks if he has any idea what it means.  Daichi just _looks_ at Koushi in response, adoration written more clearly on his face than any calculus equation on the page of a notebook.  And, honestly, Koushi has no idea what the word means, either.)


	4. the beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is really just an excuse for me to share some karasuno goes to the beach headcanons. (I have a lot of them.)
> 
> (also, these drabbles just keep getting longer and longer?? and please note the rating change. there's a little bit of nsfw at the end of this one.)

Taking the team to the beach was a bad idea.

Okay, yes, it seemed great when Suga first suggested it – they would take a day off from summer training, forget about the stress of preparing for the spring tournament, give their aching muscles and minds a break.  And it started off well, too.  Takeda-sensei somehow used his incredible powers of begging to get them a bus, which actually left the school on time early that morning.

Plus, they prepared expertly.  Daichi and Suga have brought, between them, a full set of beach toys (they were not fooled by the “ages five to ten” sticker on the packaging), a cooler stocked with enough sandwiches to feed a small army, ten spray-cans of waterproof sunscreen, extra hats and sunglasses, and an entire package of disposable water bottles.  They distributed the supplies on the ride over, and Daichi gave the whole team a lecture before he let them get off the bus: no harassing strangers, no unnecessarily loud yelling, no straying too far from the group without permission, and, above all else, _no volleyball._   He even threw in a _break any of these rules and I will end you_ glare.

Daichi wonders, sometimes, if his glare is as effective as it used to be.  Once, at the beginning of the school year (when life was simpler and kouhai less rebellious), it could dispel any troublemaking in a single bound.  Now, well ... Not five minutes after the team sets down their towels, Hinata shouts, “Kageyama, toss to me!”

 _Toss to me?_ Daichi wonders, bemused.  _Toss what?  The towel?  A water bottle?_

But no – to the surprise of the entire team (except Hinata, apparently), Kageyama pulls a volleyball out of his bag and tosses it to Hinata in a high arc.  Before Daichi can even begin to yell at them, Hinata spikes the volleyball, sending it quickly and efficiently ... straight into the ocean.

Both first-years chase after the ball on instinct, like a pair of dogs going after a particularly exciting Frisbee.  They’re fifty meters into the surf, both yelling about whose fault it will be if they lose the volleyball, by the time Daichi has composed a sufficient lecture.

And things only get worse from there.

Asahi, terrified of the crashing waves (despite a taunt from Nishinoya that he is “literally three meters tall”), builds a sandcastle, only to accidentally step on it the second he stands up.  Tanaka and Nishinoya try to peek in on the girls’ bathroom to get a glimpse of Kiyoko changing, catch Yachi half-naked instead, and earn black eyes from the older manager for their trouble.  Daichi loses Tsukkishima and spends nearly half an hour looking for him up and down the beach, only to discover that the idiot was sitting on the bus with his headphones on the entire time.  Hinata and Kageyama’s volleyball chasing turns into a competition of who can swim faster, and sends them so far out into the ocean, all Daichi can see of them is a distant orange speck.  Yamaguchi gets stung by a jellyfish.

Daichi isn’t sure he’s ever been this frustrated in his entire life.  It’s as though all the blood in his body has been drained out and replaced with pure, unadulterated rage.

It’s only eleven in the morning, they’ve been here maybe an hour, and Daichi is already standing at the edge of the surf, yelling at his entire team at once.

“Tanaka and Nishinoya, it is very rude to spy on girls’ bathrooms, did your mothers teach you _nothing_ , you deserve those black eyes.  Asahi, man up and swim.  The water will not kill you.  Hinata and Kageyama, _come back before I go out there and drag you back myself._   Yamaguchi, everything will be –”

_Holy shit._

Daichi’s mouth isn’t working.  Neither are his legs.  Nor his arms.  If his blood was turned to rage before, now it’s been frozen, colder than the snowcaps on Mt. Kilimanjaro.  And if this is what it feels like to be paralyzed by a jellyfish sting, Daichi suddenly has a lot more sympathy for Yamaguchi.

“Captain?” the kid in question asks.  “Everything will be ... what?”

“Fine,” Daichi chokes out, not looking at him in the slightest.  “So fine.”

 _So fine_ is, indeed, a very mild way of describing how Sugawara Koushi looks right now.  He’s walking out of the ocean after a brief swim, back straight to guard against the crashing waves, and he is ... Shining.  Glistening, perhaps.  The late-morning sunlight traces his bare chest, caresses up the smooth planes of his neck, lingers on his gleaming face as though it never wants to leave.  (Daichi doesn’t blame it.)  Suga is like a merman, or a sea monster – something divine and mystical and unfathomably gorgeous.

Daichi can’t take his eyes off him.

“Hey, captain?” Hinata says, somewhat mournfully, from Daichi’s left.  “Sawamura-senpai?”

“Yes?” Daichi asks, not moving.

“We lost the volleyball,” Hinata informs him.

 _Oh,_ Daichi thinks vaguely, between _holy shit I need to touch Suga right now_ and _how can I ever hope to deserve him._   And then, a moment later, _that explains the mournfulness._

“We want to hold a funeral,” Kageyama contributes, from somewhere near Hinata.

“Sure,” Daichi tells them.  He nods his head jerkily, reluctant to shift his gaze in the slightest.  “Do whatever.”

Suga hasn’t moved either – he seems trapped in Daichi’s gaze, or he wants to stay in the ocean a little longer, or perhaps he’s just enjoying the sight of Daichi absolutely tortured by his very appearance.  It’s hard to tell with Suga, sometimes – and just as Daichi thinks that, Suga starts to _smirk_ , wide and cunning and so _hot_ Daichi worries the tips of his ears might burn off.

“Guys,” Daichi says, faintly.  “Kou – Sugawara and I need to go ... Discuss things.  Captain things.  And we need to go right now.”

With possibly the greatest force of willpower he’s ever exerted, Daichi tears his eyes away from Suga and starts marching towards the bathrooms.  Suga follows without a word.  When his hand meets Daichi’s and their fingers twine together – Suga’s cold from the ocean, Daichi’s warm and sweaty – Daichi feels a jolt of electricity run right through his body.

(Tanaka and Nishinoya are hooting, Hinata is asking a thousand questions, but Daichi doesn’t care.  He _doesn’t care._   It’s a freeing feeling, not caring.)

Luckily, _mercifully,_ the bathroom is empty – and Daichi presses Suga into a stall – kisses first Suga’s lips, then his neck, then straight down his chest, undoing Suga’s swim trunks as he goes – takes Suga into his mouth, slick and half-hard and tasting of saltwater –

And as Suga comes apart above him, whispering Daichi’s name louder than any scream, Daichi thinks that maybe going to the beach wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.


	5. composition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing poetry is hard, guys.

Composition has never been Koushi’s best subject.

He’s good at literature, historical and contemporary and even in other languages – he can read a story and pick out character progressions and literary devices, like watching a volleyball game as noticing a team’s strategy, individual players’ room for improvement.  Koushi likes reading, he always has, and reading for schoolwork, puzzling through more challenging and complex texts than he ever would’ve picked up outside of class, is almost fun.  It’s only when he’s asked to write something of his own that he starts to have a problem.

Koushi stares down at his open notebook.  He’s written the date in the upper right-hand corner, but other than that, the page is completely blank.  It’s been that way since his teacher gave them their assignment, almost fifteen minutes ago.

“Write a short poem,” she said.  “It can be about anything – future plans, a place you like, a person important to you, the dream you had last night, whatever.  Just try to play with word choice and spacing, similar to the way Fujiwara does in the poem we read yesterday.  At the end of the period, I’ll ask for a few volunteers to share their work.”

_Future plans,_ Koushi thinks.  _A place.  A person.  A dream._   Hundreds of images flash through his mind at those suggestions – his home, his family, his teammates, Nationals, the second gym, a thousand tosses sent to spikers.  There are poems in all of those ideas, he’s sure, but how does he take the ideas in his head and translate them into ink on a page?  How does he _condense_ the feelings he has, the ideals he believes in, the people he loves into just _words_?  And how does he make those words sound beautiful?

It’s not that Koushi has no ideas, but that he has too many.  Too many ideas and no clue which one to use or how to use it.  This is nothing like the last time he wrote a poem – elementary school, when they were assigned topics upon which to compose form haikus – this is infinitely more open-ended and infinitely worse.  His thoughts swirl around his mind, crowding it more than a subway train in Tokyo during rush hour.

Koushi groans quietly, covering his face with his hands.  He could never be a poet.  This is way too hard.

After a moment of hiding in his palms, where al is dark and comforting and there is no composition assignment, Koushi emerges.  He glances around the room, fruitlessly hoping that he desks or posters or faces of his classmates will give him some inspiratio –

Koushi’s eyes meet Daichi’s.  Everything stops.

Daichi’s sitting in the next seat over, and his paper seems to already have a fair amount of words filling its spaces – but that’s not what Koushi focuses on.  He can’t focus on much of anything, actually, with Daichi looking at him like _that_ – like Koushi is brilliant and precious and any second he deems to spend with Daichi is a second Daichi spends in heaven.

And then, Daichi smiles – a steady, certain thing, the same smile he gives Koushi when he’s been overthinking his ability to hold his own in a game.  And with that smile, Koushi’s mind goes blank.  Blank as his notebook page without any words, empty as a volleyball court the morning after a big tournament, silent as a music hall the moment the conductor lowers his baton at the end of a piece.

Wait.  Conductors, silence, smiles – a poem begins to take shape in Koushi’s mind.  And once he has a few words strung together, the rest follow easily.

Koushi gives Daichi an answering grin, then bends toward his notebook.  He thinks about space, function, word choice, and writes.  Poetry is simple, suddenly.  Simple as a well-executed quick strike.

He’s just putting the finishing touches on his poem when the teacher calls, “Alright, time’s up!  Who wants to share?”

Koushi is not sure he wants to share.  With one specific person, perhaps, but _later_ , and in private.  He doesn’t want the whole class reading this.

Unfortunately, the rest of the class seems to have a similar idea, if the complete lack of volunteers is anything to go by.

“Come on!” the teacher exclaims.  “Surely someone has written a poem they’re proud of?”  Her eyes search the room avidly, seeking out the slightest hint of self-confidence among her students.  None of them dare to make eye contact.

She takes a few steps forward, arm raising slowly, like that of a zombie in a horror movie.  She’s going to choose someone in the front row, either Miamoto or Kurohashi or – oh, no.  Asahi.

Asahi can’t share a poem he just wrote in front of the entire class.  He can barely even give group presentations that he worked on for weeks – ask him to read a poem, probably a personal one, and he might self-combust out of sheer embarrassment.

Asahi can’t self-combust.  Karasuno needs an ace, and Tanaka is _not_ ready for that responsibility.

Koushi’s hand shoots up before he has time to second-guess himself.  “Sensei?  I’d like to share my poem.”

The teacher retreats, giving him an encouraging smile as she goes.  (Asahi’s safe.)  “Would you like to stand and read it?”

“Um, actually, could I write it on the board?” Koushi asks.  “I did something with the format that I can’t really read ...”

“Of course!  Come right up!”  The teacher sounds a little _too_ enthusiastic about the prospect of her students humiliating themselves, but Koushi can’t really resent her for it.  If he had her job, he’d rather do this than grade papers on fifteenth-century plays, too.

Koushi stands, grabs his notebook, and makes his way to the front of the room, then picks up a blue whiteboard marker.  As he copies out his poem, he can feel the entire room’s eyes on him – burning his back like a hot summer sun.  It takes Koushi much longer than it should to write out nine lines.

Once he’s done writing, he turns and, in a voice he hopes isn’t shaking too obviously, reads out the poem.

> _there are always a thousand symphonies  
> _ _shouting in my head at once_
> 
> _but when you  
> _ _smile      at      me  
> _ _a       thousand  
> _ _conductors  
> _ _l   o   w    e   r  
> _ _their             batons  
> _ _as                                         one_  

For a moment, there is silence.  Then, there is applause – polite, mostly, although a couple of his classmates shout, “Nice job, Suga!” or “Cool poem, Suga!”  Then, there is his teacher – saying the poem is shorter than she expected, but she likes what he did with the spacing.  But Koushi doesn’t hear any of them.

All he can focus on his Daichi, looking at him as though Koushi is his entire world, or as though the world holds many beautiful things, but Koushi is the one he loves best.  It’s amazing and dumbfounding, and for a moment, Koushi is so in love with him that he forgets to breathe.

And then, Koushi grins, bows to his classmates, and strides back to his seat – back held straighter and head held higher than when he went up.

He is _so_ getting laid after practice today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and after that, suga and daichi wrote each other many poems, most of them sappy and terrible. it's honestly amazing that their teammates/children don't make fun of their relationship 24/7.
> 
> (the "poem they read in class yesterday" is [squint by fujiwara akiko](https://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/archive/online_archive/v2_3_2005/current/translation/fugiwara.htm). the poem suga writes is one I wrote myself.)

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about volleyball mom and dad on [tumblr](http://dadmaxfurymom.tumblr.com/).


End file.
